Drums
by YokoYuyGal
Summary: I'm so sorry.  The drumming that's been pounding in your head all of your life… I hear it to.  I know it drives you mad, but to me it sounds like home.  A double-heart beat that keeps calling me back.
1. Worry

Sometimes John worried about his flatmate. He worried when he found body parts in the fridge and the toaster, all put there in the name of science.

He worries when he found empty boxes of nicotine patches after a particularly strenuous case and always felt that between waking Sherlock up to scold him and force him to eat and letting him sleep, there really was no right answer.

He worries when Mycroft mentioned in passing that despite being adopted at a young age, Sherlock had never really bonded with anyone other than their mother, though whether that was made better or worse by his stay in an asylum when he was a in an adolescent was questionable. After all, it had seemed for a time that he had it in him to be cruel rather than just detached.

He worries when Lestrade refused to answer questions about Sherlock's past drug abuse.

He worries when Sherlock looked at dead and mutilated bodies, and even those still living and suffering, with flat, uncomprehending eyes. He worries when those same eyes lit up at the mention of murder already casing down the threads of the mystery behind it.

He worried when the police under Lestrade mock Sherlock, and wonder if any of them knows how much of himself he pours into a case.

He worries when his flatmate stares into space for hours at a time or plays a violin until he draws blood and longer until John stops him.

He worries when Sherlock looks at him with a rare open expression and seems to crave human touch. He worries more when every time John goes to touch him he flinches away.

He spends so much time worrying about his flatmate that he eventually arrives at the conclusion that he should stop. Despite all of his peculiarities, Sherlock has arrived at a his present age more or less physically intact and mentally intact. Well, perhaps less more than not. But still, despite being both a doctor and the closest thing to a friend Sherlock Holmes has, it was not his responsibility to let worry for his flatmate define every hour of his life. He could try to help him in every way he could, but this never-ending, gut-twisting worry did neither of them any good.

It was about the time that John arrived at this conclusion, that he noticed an intermittent and not so very peculiar habit of Sherlock's. Sometimes, and not at any particular times, but sporadically, once while on a case sometimes while lying about the flat, Sherlock would being tapping. A rapid, dah-dah-da-da. For such an absent minded habit, it was always very sharp and precise. When John questioned Sherlock about the tapping, he looked at the offending digit, still rapping away on the edge of the sofa and said half dreamily, "Oh, it's just the sound of drums."

For some reason, after that, John felt much more inclined to spend his time worrying about his flatmate, just so long as he didn't have to acknowledge that echoing tap of drums.


	2. shelter from the Oncoming Storm

When they see her, sitting in a swing set in a playground left empty so late at night, his first impression is one of contrasts. Since he was bend over, pulling in air trying to catch his breath after their sprint to the park where Sherlock had somehow deduced, through some combination of the man's footprint and a smell left on a jacket found near the crime scene (if you were to believe the consultant detective), that the city's latest murderer would be found, he took his time in inspecting the young woman.

Nothing seemed to fit. From the bright blue high-tops to the suspenders, the fitted tweed trousers to the maroon jumper, not a single article of clothing seemed to go with another. And let's not even get started on the band of what appeared to be bells around her left ankle or the twenty-odd foot multicolored scarf wrapped around her neck. Pale skin and freckles contrasted with even paler blue eyes and dark lashes. Her hair was as odd as the scarf. John had never seen anyone dye in platinum blond streaks into curly chocolate brown hair in such a way. When she grinned up at them, her tongue peaked out the corner of her mouth in a way that had him doing a double take.

Sherlock was of course more interested in the man lying unconscious at her feet. It had never before been the case that someone had beaten him to the punch. The woman had incapacitated their murderer, and yes, judging by the brown work boots and leather gloves that Sherlock had predicted, it was him, before the genius had even reached the park. When Sherlock questioned her, her reply was a rather serious, "Well, you know, that _smell_. Where else would he have been?" Her voice had a pleasant enough bur to it, perhaps a bit Irish.

Having apparently accepted the answer as a logical explanation, he stepped forward, "Sherlock Holmes. And this is Doctor John Watson. And you are?" John could tell his flatmate was looking her over, picking apart the small details of her.

Swinging her legs once more and hopping up, she reached across the prone form on the ground to shake Sherlock's unoffered and before doing the same to John, "Eaving Smith, lovely to meet you both."

Sherlock continued to study her, "Eaving, what an interesting name," Sensing a reaction just out of reach, he continued, "'safety in rough seas; shelter from the oncoming storm.'" Something passed over her face too fast to name.

' Slightly unsteady now, she babbled a bit, "Yes well, that was my name, so my parents had little choice in giving it to me. It's a bit of a tradition though in my family, all my siblings have names that tell you a bit more than any Sue or Mark might. My sister is Blythe, and really, she is a joy."

"And the others?"

"Sorry?"

"You said siblings."

"Oh, well." She didn't try to hide the grin spreading across her face. "My brothers are the oldest, twins, Skoll and Hati." Sherlock seemed to ponder them for a moment.

"Those are names you don't hear every day." John offered, trying to keep the conversation from lapsing into silence.

"Yes, well, 'the sun and the moon, but why do they hurt?' Bad wolves." That made absolutely no sense. At least not to John; it seemed to have sparked something for Sherlock.

"How strange to name your children after the bringers of a mythical apocalypse."

"That's not really it. My mum, she spent a bit of time in Norway while she was pregnant with them. My parents were separated at the time." A sad look crossed her face for a moment before the launched back into the story. "Anyways, she had a bit of time to read. It's not really the end. Time's a bit circular; an end is just a new beginning. Everything comes back in its changed form, sooner or later." She eyed Sherlock speculatively, looking like she wanted to say more, but the sound of sirens approaching filled the air and blue lights could just be made out at the end of the street. Lestrade and his men had finally deciphered the obscure hint Sherlock had texted them as to where they were. Of course, Sherlock would claim that the text had been quite clear, if, considering that it was just a series of numbers, a bit too concise for the overworked DI to easily comprehend.

"Well, it's been an absolute pleasure meeting you both, but really the police are not so much my thing. So, I'll just be leaving you to your murderer. I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot of you. Ta." And with a wiggle off her fingers she was off, her improbable scarf trailing behind her into the night.


End file.
